Sweets to the Sweet
by TheEleventhIncarnate
Summary: They had started off as all lovers do: young, naïve, blind to the future they thought they were looking forward to. They never expected anything to turn out this way. A Debriel human AU. Warnings: somewhat explicit m/m smut, severe illness, character death, suicide.
1. Chapter 1

Sweets to the Sweet

Chapter 1

"You're late."

A characteristically crooked grin tugged one side of Dean's mouth further up than the other. The other side was promptly replaced with the end of a cigarette.

"I'm always late."

The bad boy act was getting ridiculous. Gabriel shook his head and snatched the lighter from his project partner's hand before it could reach his lips. "You can't smoke in here, douche," he said, slipping the lighter into his own pocket for the hour or two Dean would be at his place. He'd be damned if he trusted freckles to listen to a simple instruction for a second.

There was nothing about their situation that wasn't cliché enough to make Gabriel miserable. God help him, they were in the same English class, and he'd been absent the day everyone chose partners. Except in the movies, a leather jacket wearing, class skipping slacker like Dean would be paired with some goody two shoes that would do all the work and then maybe fall in love and go to prom with him. Instead, Dean got Gabriel. Slightly above average intelligence and slightly below average height. Pretty much average overall.

Also unlike the movies, the two weren't mortal enemies before the hands of fate stuck them together on a fucking William Shakespeare project. Billy Shakes, as Dean liked to call him, and grin every time he did. They were little more than acquaintances; lived in the same apartment complex, only two floors apart, and occasionally caught the bus together. Conversations hadn't often exceeded what Dean missed during the class he'd decided to skip or what the test was on.

"To be or not to be, Yorick?" Dean attempted to recite, not hesitating to make himself comfortable on Gabriel's bed when he was led to the young man's room.

"Yorick's not in the 'to be or not to be' scene," came the flat response. "Doesn't come in for another two acts."

"Whatever."

"Can we please just work?"

Reluctantly, Dean agreed, and Gabriel came to discovered how productive the boy in leather could be. When he was sober, at least. He'd had the decency enough to be just that for the night. The bruise that had circled one of those brilliantly green eyes was nearly gone. Perhaps Dean hadn't been given a reason /not/ to be sober lately. Gabriel said nothing of it. No one ever did.

Themes weren't either of the boys' strong points. Were they anyone's? Especially in a language that may as well not be English at all. Hey spent a fair amount of time bitching and whining about Elizabethan before any work got done. Something they could agree on, at least. 'Forbidden love can never last'? That one wasn't working out so well.

"Even if there wasn't the issue of that being the lamest thematic statements ever," Gabriel protested, "Ophelia wasn't in love with Hamlet."

"You're joking, right? She was totally in love with him."

Gabriel wasn't having any of it. He shook his head and flipped open his borrowed school copy of the play, finding his way to act five. "Right here. 'How should I your true love know from another one?' She didn't believe him."

"Because her dad said not to," Dean retorted.

"She never did! Here, say you're Ophelia-"

"Why do I have to be Ophelia?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Fine, say I'm Ophelia. After I go crazy, all I sing about is my dad. Because I cared about him way more than I cared about Hamlet."

"Until here." Dean flipped the page in Gabriel's hands, searched it for a moment, having difficulty with the upside down lines, and eventually pointed to a stanza near the bottom. "Read that one."

With his best British accent and a falsetto that made Dean cringe and grin at the same time, he did. "Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's day, all in the morning betime, and I a maid at your window, to be your Valentine."

"Remember what Gritsky said?" Gabriel was shocked that Dean remembered _anything_ their teacher said, but apparently he was more attentive than anyone had realised. "They thought that the first person you saw on Saint Valentine's day would be your true love or whatever. That's what she wanted."

"And Hamlet?" The argument had somehow transformed into an actual discussion. Sitting cross legged on the floor across from Dean, his hazel eyes watched the other student with legitimate interest. Had either of them even noticed, they would have found it strange. They did neither. Gabriel had stopped trying to sound like Ophelia and Dean's laughter had subsided, that odd little grin serving as the only evidence it had ever been there.

"What about him?"

"How do we know he didn't just want in her pants? Or, you know, her dress."

"The graveyard part." Gabriel looked confused, trying to remember the scene, no doubt, and Dean took the book from him to look for it. After a minute or so of searching, he found it and stood. "I loved Ophelia!" He shouted, taking on an accent similar to the one his partner had done before, which made Gabriel have to put a hand over his mouth in order to keep himself from laughing and disrupting the show. He stood, allowing 'Hamlet' more of a stage.

"Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?"

Though he doubted Dean had a complete idea of what he was saying, but Gabriel had to admit, if at least to himself, he was remarkably good at speaking the part.

"Show me what thou'lt do: woul't weep? Woul't fight? Woul't fast? Woul't tear thyself? Woul't drink up eisel? Eat a crocodile?" A dramatic pause. The corner of Dean's mouth quivered as he kept from grinning. "I'll do't. D-"

The next line was never finished, or started. Gabriel had silenced the proclamation with a kiss; sudden, without thinking, but without regrets. Mostly because, while Dean did hesitate out of surprise, it only took a second before those chapped lips pressed against Gabe in return. It was brief. Too brief. They pulled away, silence falling over the room.

Dean coughed.

"I should get going." His freckles had faded against the tint of red covering his cheeks, mouth barely concealing the traces of a smile. "My turn to do the dishes."

Walking past the lift and into the stairwell, Dean took the steps two at a time. Not that he was particularly excited to get home, but that a certain average boy that happened to not be average at all's taste still lingered on his lips. To think that Shakespeare would be Cupid in disguise. Shakespeare, of all people, the one who had a tendency to kill off his fictional romantics. That was irony if he'd ever heard it. He stuck his key in 217's lock and creaked it open, the horror movie soundtrack-esque sound not bothering him; in one ear and right out the other, really, his mind was much too occupied. He hadn't even realised he'd been smirking until his father pointed it out.

"What's funny?"

The expression dropped off his face faster than the temperature had between Gabriel's apartment and his own. John didn't like to waste money on heating bills when the bar down the street was plenty warm anyway.

"Nothing, sir." His mood slumped with his shoulders. Green eyes downcast, the grip he held on the strap of his bag tightened.

"Where's my lighter?" John asked calmly. Dean could feel his father's accusing eyes on him like the weight of a thousand pounds. The question alone almost hurt more than a slap to the face, which would certainly follow soon enough. Hurt because it justified that slap. He'd forgotten all about the borrowed lighter - without permission, at that - because of a damn kiss. Fucking idiot.

"I-"

"Took it," John finished for him. "You took it."

Things couldn't possibly get worse.. but of course, every time that phrase comes up, things most certainly do get worse. John held out a hand, palm up, a look of expectancy on his face but an indescribable coldness in his eyes.

"Hand it over."

It would have been bad, yes, for Dean to place that dull blue lighter in his father's hand, admitting to taking it in the first place and eventually being caught in his smoking habit. Yes, that would have been bad. But what was awful was that he had no lighter to place in his father's hand. It was two floors up, probably just as forgotten in Gabriel's pocket as it had been in his mind. Clearing his throat, he could still not meet John's gaze. "I don't have it."

Again he fooled himself into believing he'd hit the bottom. Again he was promptly proved how foolish that was.

…

Dean had already been gone half an hour, but that feeling remained in Gabriel's chest. A fluttering, childish excitement. He'd kissed back. The bad boy with the dull blue lighter and the leather jacket and the pretty blonde girlfriend had kissed back. What did that mean for them? Probably nothing, but Gabriel maybe, just maybe allowed himself to believe otherwise. He had passed his tongue over his lips for the millionth time when there was a knock at the door. Apparently it was urgent, because when he wasn't there in an instant, the knock came a second time. Opening that door was like taking a shotgun to all the butterflies in his stomach. Now he just felt sick.

"Oh my god, are you okay?"

Dean didn't answer, but he didn't have to. He was most certainly not okay. He didn't at all look like the broad shouldered, confident young man that had been over just thirty minutes before. Now the fading bruise around his eye was reddened, more so than it had been earlier; there was no doubt it would blossom into an unpleasant blue-purple overnight.

"Hey, man, you still have my lighter." Remarkably, he didn't sound any different. A hand lifted to briefly rub at his mouth, but it retracted too quickly, like the action had stung him. Gabriel could see blood on a crack in his lip that looked recently dried.

"What happened to you?"

"I need my lighter."

"Dean-"

"Please."

Gabriel's eyes were pleading, but Dean's tone in that one syllable had silenced him. He couldn't help but feel responsible. Slipping one hand into his pocket, he turned it over, palm up, gaze fixed on the boy in front of him. Half an hour ago, that boy had been a man. Somewhere between then and now, something terrible had happened to that man.

Without a word, Dean took the lighter, attempting to smile in thanks, but only succeeding in looking as though he wanted to cry. He disappeared down the hallway with slumped shoulders and dragging feet, fully aware that Gabriel was still watching him, but not turning around for fear that he wouldn't be able to resist running back to that safe haven, back into those arms that wouldn't be able to protect him, but by God, would they try. _To suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them.._

Gabriel wasn't surprised to see that Dean wasn't at school the next day.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sometime the next week, Dean started showing up again, a fresh bruise colouring his skin from cheekbone to temple on the left side of his face. Nobody could get him to say a word about it. Given his reputation, it wasn't hard for many to believe that he'd gotten into a fight with someone that he was able to retaliate against. With that same crooked grin he could lie that the damage was much worse on the other end. Case closed. Gabriel, however, knew that there was not enough time between their separation and when Dean had returned that night to prove that story true.

They saw more of each other than ever before from that point on; the kiss they'd shared went unspoken, but never forgotten. The presentation that initiated it came and went (with a somewhat decent mark), but hours were lost to the two of them walking home instead of catching the bus, despite the cold November air. A cigarette would hang from Dean's fingers every day without fail. His pretty blonde girlfriend - Jo Harvelle, the preppy sophomore, Gabriel eventually found out - fought with him no less than thirty times before giving Dean the ultimatum.

"We never see each other anymore!" She had shouted at him. In front of the school, where everyone could watch. She seemed to like it that way, never happy with any less attention. When Gabriel had tried to walk away, allow them to work it out in at least a little privacy, Dean had grabbed him by the wrist without a glance, fingers brushing together as they fell away.

"I'm sorry," he had said, tone enough to fool anyone else - anyone but Gabriel. Gabriel could tell how flat that apology was. How sincere only in the sense that he was making an effort to sound sincere. He had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

"Do you even care about me, Dean?" Too dramatic. Like it was a play. A movie. Fiction. And Dean was playing the role better than Jo was.

"You know I have a lot of stuff going on, babe."

Butterflies filled Gabriel's stomach. He wanted to hear Dean use that word on him.

"Too much for me," she spat, flipping her hair and setting her hands on her hips. Sure, she was pretty, but her and Dean.. they simply hadn't mixed well. "But not for him."

Gabriel had snapped back to attention at that _him_, so full of venom the urge to smile couldn't have possibly left him any faster. The young man beside him, though, calm as always in that old leather jacket and yellowing bruise on his cheek, just shrugged. "We live in the same building. We walk home together."

"Bull." The closest perfect little Jo had probably ever gotten to swearing. "Everybody knows."

"Are you done?"

_Everybody knows what?_

"Yeah," Jo said, frown lines creasing her otherwise flawless face. "We are."

Gabriel kept his silence, but.. _Everybody knows what?_

Dean wasn't given the chance to respond before that blonde hair flipped again and Jo was walking away, head held high. As long as she was pleased with all the attention she was getting, Dean apparently couldn't care less. He'd been meaning to call it off with her for weeks. Out came a cigarette, not the first for that day and probably not the last, along with a lighter, one decorated with the American flag that he'd finally bought for himself (using the bus fare he'd saved thanks to Gabriel). Anyone else would think he was lighting up because he was stressed or upset. Gabriel knew it was a good sign. He was relieved.

"You'll give yourself cancer if you keep this up," Gabriel pointed out, earning himself one of those offset grins and a puff of smoke in his direction.

"That'll give me a reason to quit."

That seemed to be the end of the conversation. Idle drags on the cigarette put a few holes in just as idle talk, but Gabriel didn't mind it. In fact, he added it to the growing list of things he'd like to get used to. That strange syntax Dean had to his speech. Carefree even in the most serious of subjects, choppy at times, but with a novel of meaning behind a sentence of words. The bell to end Gabriel's spare and a science period Dean couldn't be convinced to go to interrupted them. Once again that hand grabbed Gabriel's wrist in a gentle but insistent way.

"Skip with me," he said, lips refraining from a smile, but green eyes betraying him even behind the discolour of his bruise.

Gabriel sighed. "Why do you even come to school?"

"To see you," came the prompt answer, and had the cold air not already tinted his cheeks pink, the heat flooding his face would have been embarrassingly visible. Dean easily made the decision not to add a reason that was just as reasonable; the fact that school gave him an excuse to get away from John. Regardless, Gabriel shook his head.

"We have a test."

"So?"

"A big test. If we skip, we'll need a note to say why we weren't there. If we need a note, we need a parent signature."

Dean shrugged. "Forge it."

"Dean, no." Gabriel became aware of the fact that the grip on his sleeve had not wavered or let go, and he pulled away from it only slightly so the grip was no longer on his clothing but his hand. Their fingers fit together like pieces of a puzzle. "Just go to class. For me."

There was no way to refuse with those convincingly beautiful eyes and the touch of their interlocked hold.

Gabriel didn't fit either description of 'goody two shoes' or 'bad boy,' but reputation aside, he wanted to do what he could to help Dean pass the test. He didn't bother doing anything more than making it incredibly easy for anyone to see his answers. Anything more would get them caught and flunk them both. No point in that. Still, worry laced the frown on his lips more than concentration. Algebra was hard even for students who studied. Dean most certainly did not. It wasn't the imminently poor grade that concerned him, but that bruise that made him wince every time he thought about it, and the consequences that might follow a request for a parent-teacher meeting or call home or something of the sort. The shake of Dean's leg under his desk told Gabriel he was just as nervous, which was further unsettling; Dean was never nervous. Once their time was up, both clusters of sheets were handed in, one much, much emptier than the other.

…

Knowing it was coming did nothing but set the boys even more on edge. It became increasingly evident to Gabriel just how frightened Dean was of his father. His shoulders seemed to slump at the mere mention of him, never failing to turn the young man into a child awaiting punishment. What broke Gabriel's heart most of all was the sense he got that Dean always believed John was simply giving him what he deserved.

Ever since the public argument with Jo, they had been spending even more time with each other, if that was possible. Often times they would be sitting, talking, some pointless story sharing that they wouldn't remember in a matter of days or so but it wasn't pointless because hearing each other's voices was enough to get them through the day. One hand occupied with the cigarette burning away between his fingers, Dean would use the other to seek out Gabriel's more often than not doing so without looking. The puzzle would lock together for as long as it was allowed to. A week after they'd taken that damn test, a week of the two of them worrying constantly like the relentless itch of a bug bite, always there whether it's paid attention or not, it came back. What wasn't surprising was that Dean had failed. What came as deep relief for them both was that the teacher only required a parent signature.

Gabriel didn't condone it, no, but if it kept that ever fading bruise on Dean's face from being refreshed, by all means a forgery was reasonable. John Winchester's signature wasn't difficult to fake, especially for the one of his two sons that faked it very, very often. He waited a good three days before handing back the test so as to not arouse suspicion.

"Home free," he muttered to Gabriel on their way out of the classroom; a moment too soon.

"Mister Winchester."

He stopped in the doorway, calmed only slightly by the discreet brush of Gabriel's fingers against his own, and the slight glint of his eyes that reassured he would be waiting just outside. Dean turned.

"Mister Patrick?"

Considerately, the man waited a moment or two for the room to clear out before continuing. By the way he didn't suggest his student take a seat, Dean was sure he would get to the point and release him within a matter of minutes, which he was grateful for. Mister Patrick may have taught the worst subject in most young minds, but he was a pretty good guy.

"Dean, I think I'd like to talk to your father about getting you a tutor."

His heart sank and he struggled to keep his expression neutral. "He can't come in. He works nights." The lie slipped passed his lips as easily as his hand had followed the curves of a signature that didn't belong to him. Such were the perks of being John's son. He had turned himself into quite the con artist.

"Could we work out a time for a phone call?"

Damn, why did teachers have to be so insistent?

"Uh," there was a momentary pause as Dean mentally searched a schedule that didn't exist. Instead of looking for a night where John would be off 'work,' however, he was thinking of a time when John was certain to be out of the apartment. "He's off every other Friday and he's usually awake around six." A hesitation and a suppressed frown. "But I'd wait until, like, seven, just so he's not too grumpy." Just to be safe. Friday nights were John's gambling, drinking, blacking out kinds of nights. "He's not a morning.. or, you know, evening person."

A small smile graced Mr. Patrick's features, and Dean wondered if that smile, a little tinted with pity and a little with compassion, was as parental as it looked. He wondered if that was the kind of look he should be receiving from a father that only ever looked at him with disapproval. "Is he off tonight?" The older man asked, and Dean was so preoccupied with a sadness that followed that smile he'd been given he nearly missed the question. He shook his head.

"Next week."

"Alright." Freedom was in reach. Mr. Patrick was stacking some papers and putting them away in his old messenger bag. "Seven o'clock next week. Don't forget."

Exiting that room came with a breath that made it feel like Dean had been suffocating just a moment ago and completely unaware of it. He had a week to decide just what in Hell he was going to do when the phone started ringing with no promised John around to answer it. The simple contact of Gabriel's hand coming to rest on his shoulder brought him away from the oncoming heart attack.

"You're okay." It wasn't a question. Never was when Gabriel was asking, because Gabriel knew that if it was a question, the answer would either be a lie of a 'yes' or a truthful 'no.' Reassuringly, he said again, "You're okay," and Dean's pulse regulated again as they started their lengthy, detour-filled walk home.

Things were almost normal over the next few days. Maybe he was okay after all. By Wednesday, two days before the call he still wasn't sure what to do about, he was keeping the panic at bay only by lacing his fingers with Gabriel's every chance he got. Report cards went home that day, and he had zero intention of letting John see his marks of twenties and thirties. The hallway to 217 was empty, freeing them for a quick goodbye kiss - which was becoming increasingly more frequent these days. However, it seemed that good moods and room 217 did not mix well.

With Gabriel headed to his home two floors above, Dean stepped inside and his heart dropped at what he saw. God, every time he had a little hope.

Sam's report card was on the kitchen counter. It was already open, his marks posted on the refrigerator, likely to push it in Dean's face. His little brother was seated on the couch. Pale. Not good. Their eyes met.

"Dad-?"

"Already seen it," Sam replied quietly.

John's voice startled both of the brothers, their gazes snapping to where he stood, in the doorway to his bedroom. "Go to your room, Sam."

The freshman didn't dare to hesitate against his father's order. He gathered up his things, homework, probably, that he actually completed as opposed to his older brother, and disappeared into the room he and Dean shared. The door closed gently behind him. John turned his palm up, too closely resembling how he'd looked when he'd asked for the lighter just over two weeks ago. "Let me see it."

A slight hesitation. That was his first mistake, if nothing else. The distance between Dean and his father was closed in a second. His bag was pulled off his shoulder, unzipped, and its contents dumped on the floor in one swift movement. He was indescribably relieved that his cigarettes were tucked away in one of the smaller pockets. They would have been like handing over the pen to sign his death warrant.

Just because things weren't worse didn't make them not bad. John retrieved the report card Dean wished he would have tossed in the garbage two seconds after he got it.

"Failing," John said, and laughed, that smile horribly intimidating juxtaposed to Mr. Patrick's. "Are you good for anything?"

Dean said nothing. Apparently that wasn't a rhetorical question.

"Are you?"

"No, sir."

The next time that palm turned up, it wasn't waiting for Dean to place anything in it. It was striking him across his downcast face, hard enough for his eyes to reflexively well up with tears.

"Worthless. If only your mother could see you now."

The tears increased. John struck him again.

"Gonna cry now, Dean?"

Again. And again. Dean didn't fight back. He never fought back. He wasn't able to tell when he'd fallen to his knees, only to be yanked back to his feet by the frayed collar of his shirt. John raised his hand and Dean braced himself. The blow didn't come.

Instead, worse, even, was that laugh. The grip on his shirt abruptly released and it was all Dean could do to keep from dropping again.

"Fucking worthless," John repeated. "Get the hell to your room. I don't want to look at you anymore."

Dean didn't take the time to gather his things. Vision blurred with tears and pain, he probably wouldn't have been able to anyway. He didn't dare to look back before the door to his and his brother's room shut behind him - quietly, so as to not give their father a reason to get angry again. Pain spiked through the left side of his face with every beat of his heart. Just as the bruise was nearly gone, too.

Sam peered at him from his bed, small, frightened face mostly hidden by a book. Dean didn't fear for him. Sam was the good son. Worth something. John had never laid a hand on precious little Sam - and while he felt guilty about it, he envied his little brother for this. This protection that sometimes, not often, but sometimes, Dean wished he had a choice as to whether he was giving it or not. Evidently his body made the decision before fully informing his brain, and he crossed the small room to open the window, slowly so it wouldn't make any noise.

"Dean?"

He swung a leg out the window on to the fire escape. "Dad won't come in tonight. If I'm not back in time and he asks, just tell him I was here when you fell asleep."

The other leg followed the first and he didn't await a reply from his brother before closing the window as carefully as he'd opened it. Apparently his aching mind still wasn't caught up on the plan, because he was confused when he started going up the stairs instead of down them. Then it hit him; if his cheeks hadn't been stinging so badly, they might've risen in a smile. 417.

He knocked at the window. Quietly so only the intended listener would hear. Gabriel's questioning face appeared a moment later.

"Wherefore art thou, Romeo?" This time Dean's cheeks did make an attempt to lift, though they didn't get very far. Confusion mixed with concern, then straight up pity on Gabriel's face. He lifted a finger to signal his visitor to wait a moment, darted to his open bedroom door, said something along the lines of "heading to bed" to his mother, and shut the door. Then he returned to the window and pushed it open.

"What the hell happened to you?" He whispered as Dean closed the window again behind himself.

"My dad's not one for hugs."

He could see the rage boiling inside Gabriel, at first unable to understand it. No one had ever really.. cared about him before. The feeling was nearly enough to convince himself that he should allow Gabriel to go through with whatever his rage wanted him to do, anything from calling the police to going down to 217 and introducing John to his fists, and everything in between. Then he thought better of it. He took Gabriel's hands and pulled him down on to his bed where he'd already sat himself, much like the first day they'd spent in his room.

"Don't let it bother you."

"How?" Gabriel's voice was quiet, but his tone was stern. He'd never been so upset in front of Dean. "Have you seen yourself? How long are you going to let him do this to you?"

He was silenced by Dean's lips pressing against his, and though his anger wanted to push him away only so he could take

(_arms against a sea of troubles_)

action against that monster only two floors away, he was pinned to the spot by Dean's grip. When his mouth pulled away, tasting of cigarettes even though he'd left them in his apartment, his hands remained, and he insisted again, "Don't let it bother you." After a slight pause, he added, "Can I stay? Just the night. I want to stay."

To keep Gabriel away from John, or for his own selfish reasons, because he just wanted to be held? A little bit of both. Reluctantly, Gabriel nodded. He flicked off his lamp, leaving the room dark except for the moonlight that splashed through what Dean had used as the door to his refuge, igniting the striking green of his eyes and leaving Gabriel breathless. Their limbs entangled beneath his navy blue sheets, bodies fitting as perfectly as their fingers had the first time they had laced.

For a long time, it was quiet.

"Dean?" If there was no answer, Gabriel would have no problem with letting the question lie until the boy had awoken. That was not the case.

"Hmm?"

"Everybody knows what?"

A pause. Gabriel briefly wondered if the initial response had been some unconscious grunt in response to the sound.

Finally, Dean spoke again. "Huh?"

"Jo said you don't have time for her, but you do for me," Gabriel explained.

"Yeah."

"When you tried to tell her it was no big deal, she said bull. She said everybody knows. Everybody knows what?"

A grin tugged wearily at one side of Dean's mouth, only slightly visible in the moonlight, and Gabriel kept from kissing it only in favour of getting an answer to the question that had bothered him off and on for days.

"Everybody knows I'm crazy about you," Dean replied.

The stunned look on Gabriel's face made for a quiet laugh on Dean's part. He wrapped his arms around him and planted a chaste, smile-tainted kiss on Gabriel's lips. "Doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love."

Sleep overtook him with those strong arms around him. That night Gabriel swore to himself he would reassemble this broken man, no matter what it took. He wanted Dean to be his forever.


End file.
